The Drunken Compendium

Slim Goodbuzz, professional alcoholic and amateur fuckstick

Gettin’ Ripped in Resignation

[EDITOR’S NOTE: This week’s “Gettin’ Ripped” column is apparently the last. Slim Goodbuzz tendered his resignation in the letter that follows. An explanation is in order as to why Slim begins his missive with “Dear Brad.” Slim has always referred to Transistor Publisher Adam Guggemos as “Brad.” It’s never been clear whether he simply thought this was funny, or if he legitimately was never able to distinguish Adam from Brad Nelson, publisher of the now-defunct Ripsaw newspaper, which ran “Gettin’ Ripped” from 1999 to 2005.]

These articles are a nuisance, frankly — not just to me, but to all the losers in coffee shops, student unions and plasma centers who read them. Do you really think people are interested in my observations about local bars, which generally revolve around what happens when I go to take a piss? I’m taking a piss right now, and believe me it’s not interesting at all.

Let me tell you something: Just because Duluth’s little “arts scene” revolves entirely around the consumption of alcohol doesn’t mean the two should be tied together in print journalism. Personally, the only reason I pick up your pamphlet is to make sure that none of the “hipster” local bands are playing at the bar I want to go to, and none of the “scenesters” that follow them around get within 50 feet of me. Christ, half of these clowns are like 40 years old. Shouldn’t they have some sort of real job? I at least have a disease as an excuse.

If you can’t tell by now, I’m thinking it’s time to burn some bridges. Let me start with the fucking bartenders in this town. I have been tipping them, flattering them and otherwise paying them off ever since my 14th birthday. There is a truth they need to be aware of. I hate them even more than I hate myself. When they look at themselves in that Budweiser mirror behind the bar, I want them to know this: They are not “serving” me. They are an obstruction. They are standing between me and the alcohol which is rightfully mine. Do they honestly think it is worth 50 cents to me for them to pour my liquor? They are a necessary evil. And I use the word “necessary” only on Sundays.

The only thing more useless than a bartender is a bartender who is also a woman. Talk about two completely hopeless forms of life existing in the same body. I would rather drink a urinal-ice daiquiri than have to engage in small talk with any more of these glorified blow-up dolls. Why don’t they take their phony friendliness and what’s left of their eyebrows, put them on their résumés and get jobs at Sunny Nails, where they belong?

Please extend the following wishes to my eight remaining fans: If they want to hear about the stupid shit people say at bars, why don’t they go there themselves? That is, if their dingbat wives would unleash them long enough to do so. Better yet, why don’t they just start hanging out with their own kind — namely, soilers, goat-fuckers and straight men who shave their nutsacks?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some great times over the years. There was the fistfight at my book-release party. The time some bald-headed fart shut off my porn at the Gitchee Gumee Brewfest. The time that guy threw up Spaghetti-O’s in the phone booth at the Club Saratoga. The time I almost shared a joint with a guy who was taking a shit at the Red Lion. And there was the time I actually drank an entire beer at Old Chicago before someone tried to invite me to an informational meeting about multi-level marketing opportunities.

Of course, none of this makes up for the fact that I have yet to meet anyone in this city who is not descended from a lawn ornament. Especially you, Brad, not to mention the readers of this two-bit flier you photocopy and distribute. The questions you really should be asking are, “How many ways should I fuck myself and when should I begin?” Let me assure you, the answers to these questions are “Twelve” and “Now.”

In short, I’m sick of everybody and everything they represent. Trying to entertain readers in this city has been like trying to flush a fart down the toilet. I’m moving somewhere far away and far better. Should you ever happen to track me down, please realize that while I might be drinking, playing craps and taking a piss at the same time, I still have two appendages left for kicking your ass.

Suck my crusty, flaccid dick,

Slim Goodbuzz

Search for Reviews

Column Archives

Slim's Book

Slim Goodbuzz has compiled an essential collection of disgusting vile limericks. It's all filthy, it's all juvenile, and it all rhymes. With illustrations by a dozen artists from the Twin Ports area.